A Modicum of Dignity
by Tiffany Park
Summary: Makepeace, Tobias, Neumann, and the rest of the gang get a prison transfer from the SGC lockup, courtesy of the NID. Epilogue for "Shades of Grey."


TITLE: A Modicum of Dignity  
AUTHOR: Tiffany Park  
EMAIL: twilite@sprynet.com  
STATUS: Complete  
CATEGORY: Drama, Epilogue for "Shades of Grey"  
SPOILERS: "Shades of Grey"  
SEASON: Season Three  
PAIRINGS: None  
RATING: R  
CONTENT WARNINGS: Character death, violence  
SUMMARY: Makepeace, Tobias, Neumann, and the rest of the gang get a prison transfer from the SGC lockup, courtesy of the NID.  
ARCHIVE: Please ask  
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Blame it on a rough week at work. Although to be honest, I have to admit that the idea has been knocking around the back of my brain for over a year now--the bad week just finally gave it form.  


* * *

  


**A Modicum of Dignity  
**

**by**

**Tiffany Park  
  
**

  


  


"Prisoner transfer." 

The words resounded in the quiet of the SGC's holding area and woke Makepeace from the light doze he had allowed himself to slip into. He opened his eyes and sat up. A man wearing major's oak leaves, accompanied by ten guards armed with M-16 rifles and Beretta 9mm semi-automatic pistols, handed some official looking papers to the bored duty sergeant. Two of the SGC's SFs stood by, watching the proceedings. 

Sergeant Moore took the orders with reluctance. He frowned. "You sure about this, sir? It's pretty irregular, moving 'em in the middle of the night like this." 

Makepeace checked the clock on the wall. A little after midnight. Irregular was an understatement. A leaden weight settled in his gut. 

"Them's the orders." The major shrugged. "My superiors say 'jump,' I ask 'how high?' You know how it is." 

"I sure do, sir." The sergeant made a show of examining the papers. "Everything looks in order." 

"Signed and sealed by all the proper authorities." 

"Yes, sir." Moore scribbled down his signature and handed the papers back. "Well, they're all yours, then." 

Trailed by the major and his entourage, Moore walked across the room and unlocked the first cell. By this time, the other occupants of the cell block were stirring, sitting up and looking a little bewildered. "Okay, folks," Moore announced, pulling open the door, "rise and shine. It's time to go." 

"Go?" Neumann asked, blinking sleep from his eyes and scratching the back of his head. 

"You didn't think you'd be staying here forever, did you?" the major asked. 

A blank expression crossed Neumann's face, replaced with a sly look of calculation as he glanced from the clock to the major and his collection of guards. "No, sir," Neumann said, almost smugly. 

Makepeace refrained from shaking his head at the kid's naiveté. He knew what Neumann was thinking--it was pretty obvious, displayed for all to see. He also didn't believe it for an instant. He stood as one of the guards approached him and brandished a pair of steel handcuffs. 

"You first, Colonel." The guard spun Makepeace around and locked his hands behind his back, then ushered him out of the cell. The others were treated in a similar manner, until they all stood, surrounded by armed guards, waiting. 

"You want me to get you some help, sir?" Moore asked. "They're a pretty tough bunch. I could call in some more SFs--" 

"That won't be necessary, Sergeant," the major replied. "But thank you for the offer." His cold eyes took in both the prisoners and the guards. "Come on, let's get moving." 

The two SFs took up positions front and rear, providing an official escort, guiding the large group through the SGC's gray, concrete corridors. 

It was amazing how empty the place was at this hour. The hallways were all but deserted; the nighttime SF patrols, maintenance personnel, and the occasional tech were the only people wandering about. The SGC kept security and support staff on duty at all hours to handle any unauthorized 'gate activations, but the nights lacked the bustle seen during the daylight hours. 

Makepeace hadn't given it any thought before, but it was the perfect time to transport prisoners, if for no other reason than that there were fewer rubberneckers. Of course, that also meant there were fewer witnesses, fewer people who might question the legitimacy of the major's orders. 

Even if someone had been suspicious, though, what difference would it make? Makepeace had no doubt that those orders would check out, one way or another. 

Curious glances were sent their way from the rare passersby, but otherwise the entourage passed through the SGC unmolested. Two elevator rides brought them to the top level of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, where a secure transport vehicle awaited them. Still handcuffed, they were shoved into the shadowy back compartment with an utter lack of ceremony. 

The interior was stark and windowless and, when the rear doors were slammed shut and bolted, darker than an overcast, midwinter's night.  


* * * * * * *  


It was a very long ride. 

They had been traveling for about an hour to an hour and a half, if Makepeace could trust his time sense. It was usually accurate, but the blackness inside the transport was disorienting. His fellow inmates had been quiet for most of the trip; the few conversations that broke out were hushed and limited to speculations about what would happen to them. Neumann had taken to periodically reassuring them that "everything would be okay" in a knowing tone of voice. 

Makepeace wished that were true. He kept his silence throughout the trip. 

The transport made a sharp left turn that rocked its occupants, even threw some of them to the floor. It now felt that they were on an unpaved road, so bumpy was the ride. The benches that lined the vehicle's armored walls were hard and unyielding, and translated without mercy every lurch and jolt to the prisoners sitting on them. 

A short while later, the jarring increased, as though they had eschewed roads entirely and were traversing the rough countryside. They continued another half-hour, then the journey came to a stop. 

The doors were yanked open, and harsh, artificial light flooded the compartment. The single word, "out," was spoken. One by one, the prisoners filed out into the cold night. 

Makepeace stepped out last, squinting against the unnatural brightness while his eyes readjusted to the presence of light. He heard a few confused, frightened murmurs around him as his companions registered their surroundings. 

They were standing in the middle of an arid, rocky landscape--Makepeace wasn't certain where it was, although he could guess based on the travel time to get here. Plainly it had suited someone's sense of irony to do this in what amounted to the SGC's backyard. 

Two portable stadium lights had been set up, their ugly illumination revealing the presence of a backhoe, a large pile of loose dirt, and a long pit dug into the earth. From this angle Makepeace couldn't be sure, but it looked like the pit was at least fifteen feet deep, possibly twenty. A number of pots holding scrub and dry grasses stood nearby. When the NID was finished, no one would ever realize that the site had been disturbed. It was almost surreal. 

Resignation set in. So. It really was the end of the line. Even though he'd been expecting something like this, still Makepeace felt his heart drop down into his stomach. Reality was a bitter pill to swallow. He looked up, but the relentless white glow of the stadium lights blotted out the stars, leaving only a sterile blackness overhead. 

Claire Tobias and two others were pulled aside and hustled off toward a dark sedan. Of course; the scientists. They were the ones with hands-on experience with the alien artifacts. They had dissected and experimented with every piece of technology brought to the NID's off-world base; as a result, they ought to have some idea of how it worked. It would be beyond foolish to throw away that knowledge base. 

However, as far as the NID was concerned, the rest of them were just muscle and errand boys. 

For an instant, Makepeace couldn't decide if he envied the scientists or not. Yes, they'd get to live, at least until they had outworn their usefulness. On the other hand, the NID now _owned_ them, lock, stock, and barrel. They would vanish into the system; perhaps their deaths would be faked, perhaps some poor, patriotic fools would go to prison in their stead. Then the captive scientists would be hidden away, their property and savings confiscated, their very identities stolen from them. They would no doubt be kept in luxury, but equally, they would be dependent on the NID for mere survival. There could be no escape, no return to the life, the friends and family, that they had once known. In effect, they would spend the rest of their lives as slaves, by any other name, laboring for The Cause. 

No, Makepeace decided, he didn't envy them. 

The car pulled away, vanishing into the moonless night. 

Makepeace had always known that he would never stand trial. The NID would never have permitted him or the others the opportunity or the forum to spill any embarrassing and dangerous secrets. For the same reason he had never expected more than the cursory interrogation he had received at the SGC after his arrest, and indeed, there had been none. Nor had he believed they could simply be released; that posed equal, unacceptable hazards for the NID. 

That left just two options regarding their disposal: Provide them with new identities and absorb them into the NID, or eliminate them. 

The first had apparently been deemed impractical for the group as a whole. The scientists were valuable, hence they were retained. However, Makepeace realized he and the others, lacking specialized knowledge and skills, weren't considered worth the large effort required to keep them alive, useful, and incommunicado from the rest of the world. In the NID's eyes, there would be too much overhead for too little return. 

The guards moved among the prisoners, herding them into the light and arranging them in a single line. 

At least they hadn't been thrown into the pit, to be machine-gunned down like animals. Nor were they blindfolded or forced to their knees. It seemed they were to be afforded at least a few shreds of dignity. A surprising consideration, under the circumstances. 

It appeared that the NID, in its own twisted way, was giving them what it considered to be a respectful sendoff. None of the guards had been violent or abusive in their handling of their prisoners. Chatter had been kept to a minimum, and no taunts or profanities had been uttered. No one had been terrorized. Just the clean, efficient performance of a distasteful necessity. 

Makepeace spared a glance at his companions. They were standing straight and tall, eyes forward and expressions stoic. Only their hands, cuffed behind their backs, belied the illusion of military discipline. The eldest was perhaps thirty-two, the rest in their twenties. They seemed so young . . . . 

Hell, any age was too young for this. Even forty. 

One of the guards pulled his pistol and stepped up to the line of prisoners. "Front or back?" he quietly asked the first victim. 

That they were to be offered a choice in the matter came as a complete surprise, another unlooked-for consideration for the condemned. It reinforced the notion that they weren't being thrown away like rubbish or disposed of like criminals. Instead they were being given a quiet, dignified execution. 

Perhaps it would have been kinder had the guards simply gunned the prisoners down, but Makepeace found he was strangely grateful that the NID was permitting him to die with some decorum. 

"Front," Richards said, pulling himself up proudly. His face was schooled into an impassive mask. First was always easiest. 

Makepeace couldn't help flinching at that deafening, first shot. Richards pitched to the side, his body making a soft thud when it hit the dry, hard earth. The thunder reverberated across the empty tracts of land, a hollow echo that faded into soft silence. 

The gunman moved to the next man in line. "Front or back?" 

At that remorseless question, the youngest kid, Carpenter, broke. Heedless of the armed guards, he ran as fast as he could into the barren night. With cool detachment, another of the NID men raised his rifle. Two shots fired, expertly placed and in quick succession--a textbook double tap to just below Carpenter's left shoulder blade. Carpenter fell and didn't move. The rifleman walked over to the body and put a third bullet into the skull. The futility of protest, of escape, was thus demonstrated to all, graphically and brutally. 

After that incident, the gunman no longer gave the kids a choice. No sense drawing it out, Makepeace supposed. Just get it over with fast; at least that would minimize the trauma and the panic--and the fuss. 

The gunman raised his pistol again, and fired. Another of the kids fell. 

Jenny Starck sidled in closer to Makepeace in an unconscious bid for reassurance. Her shoulder just touched his arm, so that he could feel her trembling. 

Tears were sliding down her cheeks, but she didn't make a sound. Good girl. Had his hands been free, Makepeace might have put an arm around her shoulders, offered her some small comfort in her last moments of life. As it was, he simply stood, immobile. This was the inevitable outcome; from the very beginning, they'd all known that this was possible, that there was only one way out of this blackest of black ops. But kids, well, kids always believed they were indestructible, that "it" couldn't happen to them. 

After twenty years in the Marine Corps, Makepeace knew better. He'd seen too many kids maimed or killed; he'd maimed and killed his share of kids, enemies though they might be. He had quit believing in his own immortality long, long ago. 

Another gunshot. Then another. 

One by one, they fell. There were a few tears, and the stink of fear was thick in the air, but no one broke down; not one of them begged for his life. To his own surprise, Makepeace found he was proud of them. They were good kids. 

The NID gunman was considerate, in his own way, moving quickly and efficiently through the line, and always aligning his shots so that the unavoidable spatter of blood and tissue didn't hit any of the still-living prisoners. The careful restraint allowed them to keep their repressed hysteria under control. 

Another crack of thunder, closer this time. Neumann collapsed to the ground, limp and unmoving. 

Jenny was staring at Neumann's body, sprawled in the dust, his head surrounded by a growing halo of crimson. She was shaking so hard it was a miracle she was still standing. Another blast shattered the night. Blood sprayed, and Jenny toppled over. 

She never knew what hit her. The gunman had shot her while she was distracted, sparing her the terror of looking down the infinitely long barrel of her own death. Another small mercy, unexpected but not unwelcome. 

Makepeace was the last one left. 

He felt strangely calm, even detached, as though it was someone else's life about to be snuffed out. Surely he should be more concerned? Shock, perhaps, or some kind of endorphin overload? Either way, he was grateful for it. It allowed him to face his fate with a modicum of dignity. 

The gunman moved in front of him and looked him in the eye. His expression betrayed both respect and regret. "You know it has to be like this, Colonel." It was the first complete sentence spoken since the desert interlude had begun. 

"I know," Makepeace replied, tonelessly. 

"Front or back?" 

"Front." There was no hesitation in the reply. Makepeace wasn't going to take a bullet in the back like a coward. He would watch every moment of his own execution. He would die like a man, like a Marine. 

The gunman nodded once and stepped back. He raised the pistol and took careful aim at a point in the exact center of Makepeace's forehead. 

It was odd, Makepeace mused, how time seemed to slow down in moments of extreme stress, how sound became muted. Adrenaline, he supposed. He watched the gunman's finger tighten on the trigger, saw the bright muzzle flash. He imagined he could make out the shape of the bullet, seen head-on, growing larger-- 

The world exploded into silence.  
  


  


**.: fini :.  
  
**

  


_January, 2002  
_


End file.
